The House of a Hundred Whispers

the bathroom door?’
‘You could at least go and check.’
Rob blew out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘All right, if it makes you happy. But I swear to God there’s nobody there. You know what this house is like, full of all kinds of weird noises. It could have been mice, running along behind the skirting boards.’
‘Rob – mice don’t whisper. Not like that. That was definitely two people, having an argument. You know it was.’
Rob opened the door again and went along to the bathroom. It was chilly inside, with only the sound of the bath tap dripping. He tugged the light cord, and looked around, but there was nobody there. His dead father’s toothbrush was still on the shelf above the basin, its bristles splayed. Too parsimonious to buy himself a new one.
He went back to the bedroom. ‘Even if there was somebody there, darling, they’re not there now. All we can do is try to get some rest. They’ll start searching again as soon as it gets light.’
Vicky punched her pillow and lay her head back on it. ‘I wish we’d never come. I hate this house. I hate Dartmoor. I just want Timmy back safe and well so that we can go home and never ever come back.’
*
About twenty minutes before dawn, Grace came tapping at their door, carrying two mugs of tea, and half a packet of Hobnobs in her cardigan pocket.
‘We thought you ought to have something inside you, even if you’re not hungry. Did you sleep at all?’
‘I think I might have dozed off a couple of times,’ said Vicky. ‘How about you?’
‘On and off. Don’t tell her I told you, whatever you do, but Portia kept snoring. And I’m sure I could hear some people whispering outside our door. I didn’t want to get up and see who it was because I didn’t want to wake Portia, and it stopped after a while anyway.’
‘We heard the same,’ Vicky told her. ‘Rob took a look outside but there was nobody there.’
‘You always thought Allhallows was haunted, didn’t you, Rob? You used to think there was a boy just like you lying under your bed.’
‘Did I tell you about that? I don’t remember telling anybody.’
‘Yes, you did. You always used to kneel down and look under your bed before you got into it. You did it every night and one night I asked you why.’
‘Anyway, Grace, thanks so much for the tea,’ said Vicky.
‘That’s all right. If you want a top-up, or anything more to eat, we’re down in the kitchen. I expect the police will be here soon.’
Almost as if it had heard her, Rob’s phone rang. He picked it up and it was Sergeant Billings.
‘We’ll be with you in about half an hour, sir. We’ve got a couple of dozen volunteers from Dartmoor Search and Rescue to help us and if necessary they should be able to muster some more later.’
‘That’s brilliant. Thank you, sergeant.’
‘We’ll find your little lad. The weather forecast looks fine. It’s not going to rain, any road, so that should help.’
Vicky was sitting up in bed, holding her mug of tea in both hands. She looked white and exhausted, and her eyes were filled with tears. Rob went and sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders.
‘They’re sending out a search and rescue team. And I’m going to pray.’
‘Who to? You don’t believe in God.’
‘I’ve just been converted. At least until we find Timmy.’

10
An orange sun was rising dimly through the fog as the Dartmoor Search and Rescue teams arrived in the driveway in two Land Rovers. There were fifteen volunteers altogether, including a dog handler, all wearing crimson parkas. They varied in age from teenagers to pensioners, serious but friendly, mostly men but with two women among them, and their team leader came up to Rob and Vicky to introduce himself. He was in his mid-forties, with a weather-beaten face and pale-blue eyes that seemed to be focused on some distant tor. He spoke with a strong Devon accent.
‘Everybody you see here is trained and experienced in searching for missing people,’ he said. ‘And we have all the equipment – radios, GPS. And first aid, if it’s needed, which we sincerely hope we won’t. You have a picture of your boy we could take a look at? Sergeant Billings says he’s five.’
Rob handed him his photograph and the team leader handed it around.
‘His name’s Timmy. He’s wearing an oatmeal-coloured jumper and brown corduroy trousers.’
‘What’s his personality? Quiet, is he, or a bit of an angletwitch?’
‘Oh, quiet, most of the time. But he’s like all kids. He has his foot-stamping moments.’
‘I get you. And have you something that Barney could have a smell of?’
Vicky was already holding Timmy’s yellow jacket over her arm. She gave it to the team leader and he beckoned the dog handler to come over. Barney was a black-and-white border collie and his amber eyes had the most riveting stare that Rob had ever seen on a dog. He took a deep and enthusiastic sniff at Timmy’s jacket, a connoisseur of what tragedy smelled like.
‘We’ll start from the house here, since this is where your son went missing from,’ said the team leader. ‘If Barney can pick up his scent, all well and good. If not, we’ll be spreading out all around Sampford Spiney. Our volunteers here have a brilliant understanding of all the terrain around here, and they know the most likely paths that he might have taken. We can’t do an aerial search just yet because of the fog, but if it clears before we’ve located him, we could consider it.’
‘He’s been out all night,’ said Vicky. ‘He’s going to be frightened and soaking wet and very miserable.’
‘Of course,’ the team leader told her, laying his hand on her shoulder and giving her a reassuring smile. ‘But in all the seven years since I’ve been a member, we’ve never yet failed to track down a single missing person.